Fading Embers
by xCrimsonxBlackxBloodx
Summary: Mustang said nothing, taking in the slumped shoulders and limp, dull hair; the skinned knuckles and the bruise that circled his left wrist; the heavy footsteps and the way that he favoured his left leg. The young man was spiralling downwards, he knew, but he was powerless to stop it. Post-series. Warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no Renkinjutsushi doesn't belong to me. I just borrow Arakawa-san's toys and try not to break them (too much).

* * *

 **Fading Embers**

 **Rating:** M

 **Warnings:** Not-so-happy themes ahead. Edo aginst, language, mentions of child deaths, and more.

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CHAPTER ONE

His new offices were, admittedly, rather generous for someone of his rank. The grand windows of his personal office were currently wide open, allowing the gentle notes of bird chatter to bounce off whitewashed walls and admitting a late spring breeze that seemed to enjoy plucking at the limp cardboard boxes decorating the room.

However, if the newly minted Brigadier General Roy Mustang was completely honest, it was something of an inconvenience that he had had to unseat half of the Amestrian military's higher ups in order to secure such a fine workspace for himself and his subordinates.

Still, he thought as he leaned back against his desk—already disappearing under crisp paperwork—and observed the view outside. The top floor view of the parade grounds was second to none, and the expanse of offices provided for his expanded staff were pleasant and bright. He would have to have a word with the Fuhrer soon to both welcome him to Central City and to thank him for his generous rearrangement of Central Headquarters.

A few sharp raps interrupted his musings, and a familiar blonde eased open the elaborate oak doors. Riza Hawkeye, her shoulders decorated with a Captain's stripes, saluted him briefly before picking her way through the mess to unload an armload of paperwork onto a plush armchair—the only easily accessible empty space. "Major General Armstrong would like these reviewed by the end of the day, sir," she informed him mildly, glancing at the already growing stacks on his desk. "Also, your visitor's just arrived."

He nodded and grabbed at an envelope that was half-buried under a box. "Thank you, Captain. Send him in."

There was no formality when Edward let himself into the office a few moments later. The young man's hands—both flesh—were stuffed comfortably into trouser pockets as he wove around the cardboard towers and towards his commanding officer's desk. With mild amusement, Mustang watched as he removed the recently arrived stack of forms from its resting place on the plush chair and seated himself there instead.

The Fullmetal Alchemist looked so _odd_ without his telltale jacket and with that long golden hair secured into a ponytail that the General wondered if the red coat, at least, had done the impossible by shrinking in the wash. Before he could voice his inquiry, though, Edward's own voice sounded above the gentle rustle of wind-blown papers.

"So, Mustang, does this little meeting have anything to do with why you haven't signed my resignation papers yet?" Fullmetal, as petulant as ever, watched him through narrowed golden eyes.

"Yes, actually, it does." Carelessly, Mustang tossed him the envelope he'd been holding onto. "That comes from Grumman himself. It seems that our new Fuhrer is rather hesitant to allow you to retire from active duty

"Like that's my problem," Edward muttered, but he was already sliding the papers out of their housing. He made quick work of the military documents, eyes skirting over the flowing text and hasty signatures before locking onto the Brigadier General's once more. "Are you serious?"

A delicately arched eyebrow met that brilliant golden gaze. "No doubt it was the best offer that he could give you without getting too much resistance from the remaining Generals. I, for one, can't imagine that many of them would be too pleased about having a sixteen-year-old Colonel in the ranks."

"And let me guess, you were the first one on the phone to complain."

"Actually," Mustang told the younger man. "Seeing as you'll remain under my command, I highly doubt that any new rank you might be given would affect the daily goings on of the military."

There was a moment of silence. The breeze ruffled the documents resting by the blond's feet, the birds continued their lilting conversation, and Fullmetal scanned the Fuhrer's offer once more. "It says that my State Alchemy assessments will take place every two years, and that I'll only have to submit research for them. Fuhrer Grumman knows that I can't do alchemy anymore, right? And it's pretty damn hard to be a State Alchemist if you can't transmute."

At least he was taking the offer seriously.

Mustang nodded. "The Fuhrer is aware of your… predicament. However, he also understands that there's more to alchemy than transmutations and, in light of recent events, he'd rather not let go of alchemical talent if he can avoid it—even if that particular talent would be dedicated to alchemical theory."

"I'll say," Edward muttered with a snort.

"Besides," the Brigadier General continued, ignoring the interruption, "colonels are more than able to bring on civilian consultants if they think it necessary—Rezembool-dwelling alchemists who can perform transmutations without a circle, for instance."

He earned a piercing glare at that. Instead of a sharp retort to accompany it, though, Edward slapped the documents against the chair's armrest a few times. "But why does he _really_ want me to stay in the military so badly? The double promotion, the exemptions to the State Alchemist assessments—not to mention all this crap about a General's pension and a promise that I'll be allowed unrestricted access to the State libraries even after I retire. That's a lot of strings to pull, and you said it yourself that it's easy enough for higher-ranking officers to hire civilian consultants."

Leave it to Fullmetal to pay more attention to what's not being said. Mustang seated himself in his own plush leather chair, steepling his fingers and observing the blond through grave eyes. "I don't need to tell you just how many people were frightened by the events of the Promised Day, Fullmetal, and that catastrophe has left the Amestrian people just as afraid of what our enemies—or even our own alchemists—are capable of under the wrong circumstances.

"Not only do you already have the reputation of being the People's Alchemist, but the part you played in stopping our enemies has caught the attention of the public. The Fuhrer believes that, by having you stay in the military and by offering you the new rank and the semblance of responsibility that goes with it, people will see that the military _does_ take their best interests—and their safety—quite seriously."

Fiery eyes scrutinized the General for a moment, and then Edward leaned back with a smirk that was just as emblematic as his red coat or golden braid. "And I bet that using the Fullmetal Alchemist as the military's poster boy would help bring all those pissed off old Generals and Bradley sympathizers to heel, too."

"Something like that," Mustang responded, a smirk curling across his own lips. "So, Ed? Can I add your resignation papers to my burn pile?"

* * *

There were the finer details to sort out when it came to Edward's acceptance of the Fuhrer's offer—Mustang insisted that the high-profile former-alchemist be able to defend himself with more than just his fists, for instance, and dogged the younger man relentlessly until Edward agreed to have Hawkeye teach him how to handle a firearm—but overall, settling the army's youngest Colonel into his new responsibilities as a ground-breaking researcher went off as seamlessly as Mustang could have hoped.

For about six weeks.

At that point, the Fullmetal Alchemist stormed into the General's office, reeking of sulfur and speckled to the elbows with black ink. "All this alchemical 'theory' I've been assigned to," he ground out, eyes flashing dangerously, "is going to drive me fucking insane. I could've figured half of this stuff out by the time I was ten years old!"

"It may seem rather basic to you," Mustang responded evenly, not even bothering to pause in his review of a personnel file, "but you should know better than anyone that to make progress, one has to start at the beginning."

He signed the bottom of the document not a moment too soon. Two palms crashed down on his desk, rattling his ink pot and upsetting a stack of papers.

"Come on, Mustang!" Was there a _pleading_ tone underneath all that frustration? "I can do more than make notes and weigh chemicals. Give me some real work to do!"

Havoc was going to have a field day. If Mustang remembered correctly, he had been the one to bet that Edward wouldn't last two months in his new position.

With a sigh, the General regathered the documents and eyed his subordinate. "You knew what your work would entail when you agreed to do it, Fullmetal. You can't very well shirk off the responsibilities you have to the people you work with."

An odd noise, sounding somewhere between a groan and a poorly smothered wail of dismay, seeped past the blond's lips. "You really are a bastard. This isn't what I signed up for and you know it!"

And indeed he did. "Right now, I don't have anything that would need the presence of an alchemist," he finally said, "but if something suited to your talents does come across my desk, I'll consider it."

"It" arrived two days later, a request for a mining inspection in the nearby town of Hohenburg—something that an alchemist would be best suited to conduct, but which wouldn't necessary need alchemy to be carried out. Orders were sent out to both a crowing Fullmetal and a reluctant Havoc, and for one blessed week, Mustang's office was free of expletive-filled interruptions and the lingering scent of cigarette smoke.

And, much to the General's surprise, he received _both_ reports on the Monday after their return to Central. True, Edward and his report didn't show up until nearly 10 o'clock that morning, but Mustang was well acquainted with the fact that these sorts of inconveniences came part and parcel with any fieldwork undertaken by his youngest subordinate.

Fullmetal's pale complexion and dragging feet when he finally let himself into the General's personal office, however, did garner a raised eyebrow. But, try as Mustang might into engage the blond, all inquiries (and underhanded slights) into the young man's rather peaky appearance were met with muted glares and the insistence that Mustang could fuck off. After all, as he was told bluntly, Edward could take care of himself.

It wasn't until he spoke to Havoc that afternoon that he managed to get a satisfactory answer.

"I think you'd be a bit off, too, if you were in his situation, sir," Havoc had told him with a good-natured chuckle and a hand gesture that suggested a few too many pints could be the culprit. "From what I gather, there were a few kids who liked to play in the mine. Something happened in there while the Chief was inspecting it, and he managed to get them all out before someone got hurt. The folks there were really grateful that the kids were all safe. They let us eat and drink as much as we wanted, and they didn't take 'no' for an answer."

Well, that certainly wasn't in Edward's report.

In the end, Mustang just shrugged and let the issue pass—it's not like the blond was ever particularly forthcoming with the details on his missions. And besides, Fullmetal could take care of himself.

With that thought securely in his mind, he didn't think twice about the supplies form that came across his desk a few days later, sent from the Quartermaster's office and signed by Edward's own scrawling hand, requesting a single bullet to replace a spent round.

* * *

A month after the inspection in Hohenburg, and just as Edward was getting exceptionally truculent again, a call from Investigations met his ear—a team there had caught wind of biological transmutations taking place in a small village to the west and wanted an alchemist specializing in that field to come along for the inspection. After a brief conversation with the office in charge of the case, Edward and Havoc were both ordered to pack their bags and head out with ten Investigations personnel.

They returned just four days later. Edward's faced was pale, and his eyes were rimmed red, but he seemed otherwise fine.

Soon afterward, he and Havoc were sent out once more—this time to look into possible chimaera sightings in a town some six hours south of Central. They were to gather information _only_ , Mustang had reminded them as they were briefed for the mission, dark eyes squarely meeting Edward's own golden ones. A squad of men and two alchemists would be waiting for their findings if military intervention was required.

However, when Mustang picked up his office phone the next morning, he was greeted by Havoc's uncharacteristically terse voice. "People here aren't too keen about the military, Boss. The Chief wandered off a couple hours ago. Told me to sit tight and keep my head down so he could look around without people wondering why he's being followed by a soldier."

That little brat… Mustang felt the muscles in his jaw tighten, but his voice was steady. "Very well, Second Lieutenant. Keep me informed of any developments."

With a "you got it, Boss," the line disconnected.

For just over two weeks, Havoc's regular check-ins consisted of little more than "still haven't heard from the Chief. Don't know anything yet." Mustang, meanwhile, developed regular migraines that refused to be displaced no matter how much coffee he drank; the discomfort left him so irritable that even Lieutenant Hawkeye avoided speaking to him in bland sentences and not-quite orders when he fell behind in his duties.

Then, seventeen days after Fullmetal and Havoc had left on that southbound train, the insistent shriek of his desk phone pulled him most painfully from a half-hearted attempt to be productive. Muttering curses, he pulled the receiver to his ear. "Brigadier General Mustang."

"You can call off the backup, General. It won't be needed." It took Mustang a moment to recognise the voice on the other end as Edward's. When he did, the sharp reprimands that were caught in his mind like barbed wire simply rusted away. Mere fatigue couldn't have ground Fullmetal's voice down to such a forlorn whisper.

"Me and Havoc'll catch the next train out. We'll be back tomorrow."

With that, the line went dead.

* * *

Indeed, Havoc showed up the following morning as though it was completely normal for him to stroll into the office ten minutes early. He presented himself to his commanding officer with a grin, a lazy salute, and a very slim, very boring report in his hands. When Mustang's expression slid into one of careful neutrality at the sight of the document, he offered a shrug and an explanation of "I couldn't really do much. Chief just showed up last night and said we were done."

"And you didn't think to verify his claim, Second Lieutenant?" His expression might have been mild, but the tone in Mustang's voice could cut through ice.

"Well, sir, when I asked about it, he just told me to shut the hell up and pack my bags."

A heavy sigh flew past Mustang's lips, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. To think that the headaches might actually go away. "Did Fullmetal give you _any_ details as to his whereabouts during his little escapade?"

"Sorry, Boss. You know how he can get about these things sometimes. All I can tell you is that he looked pretty banged up when he came back last night. You'll have to talk to him yourself if you want to know what the hell happened."

"Very well, Lieutenant." The dull throbbing behind Mustang's left eye sharpened suddenly, and he winced. "Make sure that Fullmetal sees me as soon as he comes in. You're dismissed."

But Fullmetal didn't show up that day.

It wasn't until the following workday was half over and Mustang was about to meander down to the mess hall that the familiar blond head finally appeared between those two heavy oak doors. For a moment, Edward simply watched him, eyes bloodshot and worn, fierce gold tarnished into dull amber. Then, after a moment, the young man stepped into the oversized room, pushing the door closed with a soft thud that echoed across the walls.

Mustang said nothing, taking in the slumped shoulders and limp, dull hair; the skinned knuckles on a right hand and the shadow of a ghastly bruise that circled a left wrist; the heavy footsteps and the way that he favoured his left leg. Fullmetal looked utterly defeated, he realized, trying to ignore the sudden lurch of his stomach. Had the headstrong young man _ever_ come to him like this?

"I see you've remembered where my office is, Fullmetal," he said, voice revealing none of his consternation. "Next time, though, it would be nice if you could be a little timelier about it. Some of us have work to do."

"Shut up," Edward muttered without any true feeling. He all but dragged himself towards one of the plush chairs before his commanding officer's desk. "I got caught up, alright?"

"On a street curb, perhaps?" A smirk that he didn't feel plastered itself onto his lips. "I can see how they might be a bit of a problem for someone of your stature."

A muted glare was fixed on Mustang for a full five seconds, then Edward lurched out of his seat and made for the door. "Fine. If that's how you want to do this, then I'm fucking leaving. I don't have time for this, Bastard, so –"

"Get back here, Fullmetal. You haven't been debriefed yet."

Another moment of silence. Edward stomped back across the room, threw himself back into the chair, and stared at the older man. It might have been a glare, once, but there was no fire in the blond's eyes, so the gaze just looked… hollow.

"You want to know what happened, Mustang?" The heavy words dripped from his lips like lead. "I left Havoc at the hotel because people wouldn't even give me directions as long as he was hanging around, then I made up some story about being a farmer looking for work, took up an offer to sleep in one of the locals' barns if I helped him out a bit, and learned about some alchemist who lived at the edge of town and sold corn seeds that gave a bigger harvest. I went out one afternoon to have a talk with this guy—figured that he'd at least know about other alchemists in the area—and it turned out that he was making plant chimaeras. They were big, they were strong, and they were _fast._

"I got rid of the alchemist and burned down his lab to get rid of the chimaeras 'cause they were still busy trying to kill me. Then I grabbed Havoc and got a train back here so I could deal with some bastard of a General."

Mustang met the pointed scowl evenly until Edward huffed and looked away. "End of story. Are we done now?"

"No, we're not. Tell me more about the chimaeras you found."

The younger man shifted in his chair. "They were plant-based. There's not much to say about them."

"And yet they were sentient, seeing as they attacked you when you threatened their maker, and they were fast enough to be a threat," Mustang reminded him. "You were there to collect information, so prove to me that I didn't make a mistake in handing this assignment off to you."

"He had cages there. He probably combined them with animals or something!" Edward's head snapped around to face Mustang again. His eyes were wide—but with something much darker than rage swimming in their depths. "I was busy trying to avoid getting strangled by an ivy shoot as thick as my neck at the time, so it's not like I could just kick back and go through his fucking research notes!"

"And then you decided that the best course of action would be to destroy his workspace—along with his experiments, notes, and anything else that could be of use."

"Considering his _experiments_ would have gone around killing everyone in the town if I hadn't, yeah, I did figure that it'd be the best course of action! And now you're bitching me out because I decided to kill the damned things—saving myself and everyone else who lives around there—instead of saving you a few scraps of research!"

At least the colour was returning to the young man's face, Mustang thought idly as he tried to ignore the steadily increasing volume of his subordinate's tirade, focusing instead on the red-rimmed eyes and white-knuckled fists. But there was something missing. "How big were the cages, Fullmetal?"

"What?" The interruption cut off the blond with surprising efficiency.

"You heard me. Were the cages for storing rodents or were they big enough to hold something larger?" He kept his voice carefully neutral. When Edward narrowed his eyes for just a moment, though, he wondered if perhaps he hadn't been careful enough.

"They were pretty big, I guess," Edward finally said, shifting in his chair again. "I don't know. It's not like it matters anyway."

"Considering the outcome, I suppose it doesn't." He agreed, but his mind was already filing the information away. "Get yourself checked out by one of the medics, Fullmetal. I don't need one of my officers bleeding in the hallways because he can't be bothered to take care of himself."

Edward bristled at the command. "They were just some plants. I'm not –"

"When that's done, you can take the rest of the day to yourself." Maybe that would help to rekindle the fire in those haunted eyes. "Just make sure that your report—which I'm going to assume will give me much more insight into what happened than this conversation has—is on my desk by the end of the day tomorrow."

The dismissal, though unsaid, was clear, and it took Edward no time at all to pull himself from the chair—trying and failing to hide a wince as he did so—and limp towards the door.

"And Fullmetal?" Mustang watched the young man's shoulders tighten as he paused, one hand on the doorknob.

"What?"

"I may give you a considerable amount of freedom when it comes to military protocol," he said blandly. "Next time, though, do make sure that you've at least showered before presenting yourself to my office."

"Fuck you." But the words had no heat behind them.

As his office door snapped shut, Mustang slumped into his high-backed chair with a sigh, head pounding and all thoughts of a hot lunch completely lost.

A week later, a supplies form came in from the Quartermaster's office, signed with Edward's name and demanding review and approval. Twenty-six bullets—two full clips—needed to be replaced. A third clip and a backup sidearm were also requested. After a moment's hesitation, he signed the document and told himself that he would make sure the blond wouldn't ever have to use them.

* * *

The days heralding autumn were wet and miserable. A storm front straight from Drachma swept down the country and settled over the capitol city, dumping cold rain on its inhabitants and bringing unseasonably chilly nights. Mustang complained bitterly about the seemingly never-ending downpour, and made sure to keep a second pair of gloves with him when he had to venture out onto Central's abandoned sidewalks. After all, he had enough problems as it was.

Stories of a renegade alchemist causing the unseasonal weather inundated the few tabloids published in Central, and similar rumours dripped from the lips of the city's increasingly worried inhabitants. Whispered words about the atrocities in Ishval resurfaced and tumbled though the soaked air. Tales about experiments on humans, about human-plant chimaeras, about rebel alchemists and battered children, circulated through crowded bars and hushed coffee shops as fear clouded the minds of the Amestrian people.

More alchemists the State can't control, they said to one another, eyes shifting over their shoulders to watch their neighbours suspiciously. And, really, what is the State doing to make sure these dangerous felons are brought to justice, anyway?

Their muttered words met the General's ears as he fought to control the issue, tried to set straight rumours and root out the causes of others, spoke with journalists and answered questions so the truth could be spread instead.

Yet, even as he worked to stamp out one crisis, another would crop up. Fanatics in the south who claimed alchemy was a disease were captured and dealt with, and gold-producing operations in the north were quickly squelched. The case of a child, found dead with sigils and transmutation circles etched into her skin, was passed onto Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong and his men in Investigations.

The conversation he had had with the normally jovial man about the resulting investigation was thick and black, and the memory smeared itself across the inside of his skull like oil.

"It was human transmutation; I have no doubt about it." The man had told him, eyes downturned and shoulders slumped. "Someone had tried to use her as an equivalent exchange. I… couldn't make enough of his notes to learn about the details. Or to guess what happened to the alchemist involved. Perhaps—?"

"Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel." Mustang glanced at the recovered research notes, but the Strong Arm Alchemist was right; the complicated formulas and detailed methods were not something that just anyone could unravel.

He signed off on the case and sent it down to Archives that afternoon, and spent the rest of the week trying to force his thoughts about it into the deepest, darkest, most secluded regions of his mind.

Throughout it all, the rains kept falling, trapping people indoors with only their imaginations, paranoid thoughts, and loose-lipped friends to keep them occupied. Flooding occurred along the Rheos River, sewer drains backed up, and the southern area of the city lost power for two days as the rains fell and winds howled relentlessly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no Renkinjutsushi doesn't belong to me. I just borrow Arakawa-san's toys and try not to break them (too much).

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CHAPTER TWO

Mustang stared dully at the cool water as it ran between his numb fingers and splashed into the white porcelain sink, wondering if Hawkeye would let him leave early today. After all, Central HQ was just waking up, and he'd already been here for hours to fight the losing battle of keeping the peace in Amestris.

It was odd what fear and strain could do to the human psyche, he decided, regarding his own exhaustion-rimmed eyes and freshly shaven face in the mirror. People see what they want to see, hear what they want to hear, and feel what they want to feel in order to reinforce those unfounded fears and delusional thoughts. And it was up to Mustang—and his crew, he amended—to try to force these people to instead see the world for what it was: imperfect, terrifying, and sometimes unfair, but always worth protecting.

And then there was the matter of his youngest subordinate. Perhaps, he mused, it had been a mistake to lure him back into the military's folds. Perhaps he should have tried harder to convince Grumman to let the young man go…

Fullmetal's naturally taciturn disposition had taken an alarming turn since his last mission, though no amount of badgering, arguing, or berating could convince the young man to reveal his thoughts. Indeed, Edward rarely spoke to his commanding officer at all anymore, and the few words that did pass through his bitten lips were cold and lifeless.

"Fullmetal will be seventeen soon," he told his reflection, and the realization hit him squarely in the gut; Edward spent so much time trying to acting older than his years that it was easy to forget just how young he truly was.

That thought stayed with him, burying itself into his brain as he towelled off his hands and pushed past the heavy oak doors. A gaze the colour of tarnished brass met his mind's eye as he glanced at his pocket watch—the piece reminding him that his meeting with the Fuhrer would start in just 10 minutes—and he made his way up two flights of stairs.

With a polite nod and a few words, the Fuhrer's secretary motioned for him to enter the massive, red carpeted office of Amestris's leader. The double doors swung shut and without hesitation, Mustang brought his damp right hand to his eyebrow in a sharp salute. The elderly Fuhrer waved the motion aside.

"It's so nice of you to stop by my humble offices, General Mustang," Grumman said, prominent mustache hiding a grin. "Could I interest you in a game of chess?"

At least one of them could be so carefree about the situation unfolding around them, Mustang thought irritably. Still, he offered the man a seemingly well-intentioned smile as he spoke. "I'm afraid I'll have to take a rain check, sir; I really do have to keep on top of this fiasco with the unsettled civilians."

"Ah, yes.." Grumman leaned back in his ornate chair. "Do take a seat, General, and tell me how that 'fiasco' is unfolding."

"As if your own men aren't keeping you in the loop, sir," Mustang said, meeting the man's eyes with his trademark smirk. Then, like a good soldier, he obeyed. "It's exactly what you thought would happen—the people have even less trust for the military than they did before the Promised Day, and they fear not only the state alchemists, but anyone who can do alchemy.

"What started as a sensationalist article written to fill the back pages of the _Central Times_ has fuelled rumours about a powerful elemental alchemist beyond the State's control—or perhaps even working for the State—and has brought up old stories about Ishval. And it looks like the negative talk about the state alchemists' involvement there has sparked people's imaginations; I've had more reports about chimaeras, renegade alchemists, and other suspicious alchemy in the past month than I had in the last six. Frankly, sir, my resources are stretched thin trying to investigate them all."

The Fuhrer hummed his understanding and gestured for him to continue.

"Most of these reports are, of course, unfounded," he said obediently, "caused by wildlife attacking livestock or vandals taking advantage of the general population's fear. But it encourages the rumours to spread and it continues to rile up the people. Beyond that, it gives the impression the military has no control over the country—reports of hotspots where people are starting to make demands of the government have are now coming in from all over."

"I see," Grumman muttered. His eyes were serious as he scrutinized the General seated before him. "And how do you plan on dealing with these hotspots?"

Mustang sighed and ran a hand through already-tousled hair. "It's… a complicated situation, sir, as I'm sure you can understand. I've had some limited success by speaking to the media and setting the rumours straight, but headlines claiming there are no out-of-control alchemists just don't sell nearly as well."

The bespectacled gaze didn't waver. He should have known better than to think the Fuhrer, the wily old man he was, would forget his contingency plan for just one moment—a plan that was looking worse and worse by the day, Mustang had to admit, and cursed the man silently for even conceiving of it.

"And how have the situations in Roth and New Optain responded to your methods of damage control?"

"The protesters there have been difficult, sir," he replied, gripping the padded arm of the chair hard enough to leave creases. The man was leading him into a trap, he knew it; but no matter how he tried, he couldn't find a way out. "It's just a matter of time before I'm able to calm things down there, though."

"There are nearly half a million people living in those two cities, General," Grumman reminded him.

He could hear the cage closing in around him. "Yes, sir, I'm aware of that."

"Then you're also aware of the fact that, as fragile as the current state of affairs is—what with the recovery of the Promise Day still ongoing—we really can't allow for this much discontent to be bubbling up in such places."

The iron door crashed shut behind him. "Of course, sir."

Fuhrer Grumman leaned forward, eyes cold. He could almost hear the lock clatter into place. "I'm sure you'll agree to send the Fullmetal Alchemist out, then. This is, after all, the primary reason why he was kept in the military's employ."

"Sir," Mustang began. It was fruitless to struggle, he knew, but dammit, he had to try. "Please give me more time to sort out the situation without having to send him out. I'm sure I can manage to—"

"Are there any issues about young Edward's performance that I should be aware of?"

"... No, sir." Because there weren't, not officially—Edward had accomplished all of his fieldwork quickly, and none of the researchers he worked with had voiced any complaints—but there was something _wrong_. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach every time he met that flickering gaze or tried to goad a reaction out of the young man. "I'm sure you remember Fullmetal's history of… theatrics. I'd just prefer to avoid sending him into an already tense situation without having exhausted all other options."

"If I'm not mistaken, General Mustang, all of your other options have already been exhausted."

"Yes, sir." The words were acid on his tongue, and it was all he could to not to spit them at the man.

* * *

Edward, with Havoc in tow, left for New Optain the following morning, clutching a thick folder in one hand and not even bothering to disguise the dark expression that aged his face. For ten days, Mustang jumped each time the phone screamed from its place on his desk and glared at unimportant paperwork without truly seeing it. More hotspots flared, and he was forced to plaster on a smile that hurt each time he spoke to reporters and radiomen, all the while trying to convince the Amestrian people the military was stable, really, and the new Fuhrer was working with their wellbeing in mind—

—even as the People's Alchemist meddled in affairs behind their backs.

Once, after returning home from a particularly harrying day of death threats to the Fuhrer and reports of the bloody deaths of a married alchemist couple, he found himself reaching for the bottle of cheap bourbon he normally used as a bookend. He forced himself into work the following morning, entirely too early, with barbed wire wrapped around his brain and a rumpled uniform draped over his shoulders, and his mind howled at him that Maes would have been ashamed.

The thought kept him from doing it again, even as Edward's and Havoc's silence grated on his nerves and the increasingly brutal reports worried at his sanity.

Then the reports started coming in, and a part of him wished the nail-biting silence would return.

There'd been a riot in the streets of New Optain, one newspaper article bugled from its front page. Thirty-seven soldiers had been wounded; two were dead, a military report elaborated. Ninety-three civilians wounded; seven dead, one radioman announced.

Two of those civilians had been shot down by a desperate Fullmetal as he tried to protect a single mother and her child, Havoc's voice, tinny and hollow through the earpiece of his phone, informed him. The young man himself, he discovered after a certain number of prying questions, was lying in the hospital, head and torso wrapped to protect his broken ribs and fractured skull.

He breathed heavily, trying to loosen the tightness that caged his ribs, pinching the bridge of his nose until the pain lanced towards his eyes. In his mind's eye, he saw a defiant twelve-year-old child standing before him, eyes blazing like fire and mouth set in a stubborn line, vowing he would never take another life; he'd find another way around whatever situation befell him no matter what. What had happened to that stubborn child? Was it Mustang's fault he was missing—perhaps had been for months or years?

Three sharp raps broke him from his dark musings, and he glanced up in time to see Hawkeye slip into his office. At least she didn't have any more reports in her hands; he wasn't sure if he could bear to look at any more casualty lists right now. "Yes, Captain? Is there something I can do for you?"

"The East City hospital tried to contact you while you were in your earlier meeting with Major General Armstrong." His adjutant's voice was strong as always, but he could see how drawn her face had become. "The doctor I spoke to said they should be discharging Edward in four days."

He nodded his understanding. "Excellent. Thank you. I'm going to be busy with the media all day tomorrow, but if he or Havoc phones to report in, tell them I want them both back in Central as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir."

"And be sure to schedule them both in to be debriefed as soon as they get back."

"Scheduled, sir?" Hawkeye asked; a quirk of an eyebrow was the only indication of her surprise. He very rarely asked for debriefings—especially Fullmetal's—to be added to his calendar.

"This fiasco in New Optain is a priority, Captain, and I need to hear straight from them exactly what happened, and in detail, as soon as possible." Mustang couldn't mention to her he was unsettled by his youngest subordinate's new behaviour, or he was on edge as to how the young man would handle his involvement in the riot.

After all, they'd both heard several times by now that Edward could take care of himself.

"Of course, sir. Is that all?"

"No." Mustang hesitated for just a moment, eyes falling on the plush chair where Edward had once reviewed the Fuhrer's seemingly generous offers in exchange for his continued service. "When you schedule Fullmetal's debriefing, make sure it's in the afternoon. I doubt he'd come in if it was too early."

"I'll make sure to do that, sir," she told him, face softening ever so slightly as she touched her right hand to her brow in a crisp salute. Then she marched out of the office, closing the door behind her.

It wasn't until nearly six o'clock the following day that he was finally able to stalk into his private office and slam the doors behind him. All this scrambling around in the dark, trying to allay fears and make explanations with only the barest of details about New Optain… With a groan, he collapsed into his leather chair, and scrubbed at his face furiously.

When he finally pulled his hands away, he saw the note, written in Hawkeye's precise, bold penmanship, resting by his ink blotter. Havoc had called in, it explained, and she had scheduled debriefings for both him and Edward on the day of their return to Central. The woman, in all of her wisdom, had set the meeting with his youngest subordinate to last the entire afternoon.

He sighed and cleared the note away with a snap of his fingers, willing his shoulders to relax. He would get all his answers by the end of the week, and there was little he could do then.

* * *

"Good idea about the food, sir," Havoc told him five days later, a slice of medium-rare steak in his mouth and a pint by his hand.

"I don't know about you, Second Lieutenant," Mustang replied, "but I occasionally get bored of the mediocre fare they offer in the mess hall." Unlike the blond man sitting across from him, his lunch was barely touched, though the glass of wine by his right hand was empty. His eyes gazed absently through the windows of the restaurant they had chosen for an early lunch. He could make out a few brave souls scurrying from some coffee house to an even more distant location. His mind, however, was much farther away.

"I s'pose," Havoc countered, taking a swig from his pint, "if you eat like this often enough, you would get tired of the food they serve there. Not all of us can afford stuff like this, though, unless maybe their boss was a good guy and decided to give them a pay raise."

Shaking the thoughts from his head, Mustang picked up his fork and helped himself to his meal. "I'll tell you what, Havoc. I'll consider giving you a raise when Hawkeye stops having to remind you to keep on top on your duties."

"Come on, General! She'll bother me about my work whether or not she actually needs to! You know how much of a stickler she is about that sort of thing!" Havoc's fork flew and weaved through the air as the man himself gesticulated wildly. There was something about the scene—flying fork, wide-eyed Second Lieutenant, half-eaten steak seated on expensive china—that just seemed so remarkably normal that the smirk beginning to grace Mustang's lips felt quite natural.

"The expectations have been clearly spelled out for you if you want that pay raise, Havoc," he said with the smirk still firmly in place. Havoc groaned, and it grew into a satisfied grin. "It's not my problem if you don't think you can meet these expectations."

They bantered about money and raises and women and assets until both plates were cleared and Havoc's pint was emptied. After laying down the appropriate money (along with a sizeable tip) for the blushing waitress, both soldiers dashed out of the restaurant and managed to make it to the black military vehicle without getting thoroughly soaked.

The roads were very nearly empty, but the horizontal rain forced Havoc to lighten up on his normally aggressive driving. As it was, they strode into the main set of offices just 10 minutes before his debriefing with Edward was due to start. The young man wasn't there yet, though he supposed he shouldn't be too surprised; Edward wasn't known for being punctual.

"Tell Fullmetal to come into my office when he gets here," he told Hawkeye as he glanced at his silver pocket watch.

She nodded. "Of course, sir."

He let himself into his private office and eyed the report Havoc had written up. He'd already read it over, had already questioned the Second Lieutenant about its contents, already knew about the missing pieces he'd have to collect from Edward. Still, as he slid into his comfortable leather chair, he picked it up and read through it again.

Fanaticism. That was the only way to describe the mentality of the people in New Optain. The demands, the fear-mongering by the self-appointed leaders, the rumours about the Fuhrer's intentions and the military's involvement in the Promised Day… There had been no way Fullmetal would have been able to defuse the situation.

Anger flashed through his nerves, jolting into his joints and running along his skin like electricity. He could feel it in his fingers, in his bones, behind his eyes.

 _Damn_ Grumman! With his extensive spy network, the wily old man _had_ to have known how entrenched the people of New Optain were in their twisted version of reality. His stomach rolled; he remembered Edward's dull eyes and weary face as the young man disappeared from the office, Havoc in tow, not knowing what he'd meet in the eastern city but knowing he wouldn't like it.

With a sign, he slashed his signature across the bottom of the report and threw it towards a corner of his desk. Once he received Edward's report, they'd both be sent to Archives without another glance.

A glance at his pocket watch told him it was one o'clock. Edward should have arrived by now.

He swiped at a stack of papers resting by his right hand, and reviewed the first one with unseeing eyes. It's not like he didn't have enough to do without having to wait on arrogant subordinates, he thought irritably, hand fisting around the heavy paper. His signature was dashed messily across the bottom of the document and it was tossed next to Havoc's report.

Three sharp notes echoed through the office, and his eyes flew towards the heavy oak doors.

It was just Hawkeye, a thick sheaf of papers clutched in her hands. "Major General Armstrong would like these reviewed by the end of the day, sir," she told him evenly, dropping the papers onto his desk. "You may want to look them over until Edward arrives."

He swallowed the growl that was threatening to bubble up between his lips and checked his pocket watch. Fullmetal was late by nearly ten minutes. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

"You're welcome, General." She turned on her heel and made to leave the office, but his voice stopped her.

"Lieutenant? Find Fullmetal's personnel file for me, and find out which officer's barracks he was assigned to when he was promoted. If he can't have the courtesy to report to me when ordered to do so, I'll have to do something about it."

"Right away, sir."

The doors swung shut and he gathered the tendrils of irritability around him like a familiar cloak. This type of behaviour was absolutely unacceptable even for Fullmetal, he decided. He had every intention of telling the young blond as much—in length and in volume—as soon as he found out just what the hell was going on.

With a heavy sigh, he reached for the report Hawkeye had left for him—some dull thing about the levels of security being set up around New Optain—and scanned the document without truly taking in any information about it.

He drummed his fingers against his desk, reread the first page, gave in, and checked his pocket watch. 1:15. The brat might not have much in the way of manners, but dammit, this was ridiculous.

Five minutes. Fullmetal had _five minutes_ to get his ass in the office—

Three sharp knocks resonated throughout the room. He all but jumped as he brought his eyes to the door, but it was Hawkeye again. "I have the information you requested, sir," she explained, offering him a slip of paper with a few lines of text on it. "Edward was assigned room C-12, in the north officer's barracks."

"Excellent," Mustang muttered, more to himself than to the blonde woman already excusing herself.

He redoubled his hold on the irritation and annoyance that blanketed his mind, held them there until his fingers itched and stomach swelled. Then, damning the little hell-raiser he had the misfortune of calling a subordinate, he glanced at his pocket watch once more.

It'd been five minutes. Muttering curses, he pushed himself away from his desk and strode out of the room, heels echoing a quick tempo against the whitewashed walls.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no Renkinjutsushi doesn't belong to me. I just borrow Arakawa-san's toys and try not to break them (too much).

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

The officer's barracks loomed before him as he guided his personal vehicle to the rain-soaked curb and set the brake. Once a proud building so popular that soldiers entered waitlists for the chance to call it home, it now crouched against the background of one of Central's industrial sectors, rarely seeing peace from the constant hum of machinery or growl of heavy trucks. He took one glance at the cracked façade, its pale granite almost grey in the bleak light, and squared his shoulders.

Two soldiers were in the lobby when he entered, laughing as they smoked and played cards. He had to clear his throat loudly before they noticed him, but both jumped to attention when they finally did. "Good afternoon, General! Is there anything we can help you with, sir?"

"Colonel Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist." He didn't bother hiding the scowl that etched itself across his face, nor did he try to soften the growl that emerged from between them. "Have you seen him come or go today?"

The two soldiers exchanged a nervous glance. Mustang gathered his irritation even more tightly around himself. It dropped into his gut and tightened his stomach. "Answer the question. Have you seen him or not?"

"N-no, sir," one of the soldiers stammered. "We haven't seen him since he returned yesterday afternoon."

Without another word to the two cowards shaking beneath their blue lapels, he spun on his heel and made for the creaking stairs. Up he travelled, fisting his hands so that they wouldn't shake. This was the _last time_ , he promised himself; the very last time he would allow that insubordinate little hellion to walk all over military protocol like it was a mild suggestion.

His heavy, military-issued boots played a quick tempo along the third floor hallway and he found himself standing before a cheap wooden door adorned with a small plaque. _C-12_. He brought his fist up to the door and the sharp raps echoed down the dim hall.

Heart pounding loudly in his ears, he waited. There was no reply, no shuffling of an uneven tread, no muttered curses at being interrupted. Nothing at all.

Something was wrong here. There was something seriously amiss with Fullmetal, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the New Optain riot would have only made it worse—whatever "it" was.

Worry reared its ugly head and refused to leave, no matter how he tried to squash it down.

He raised his fist again, pounded loudly. "I know you're in there," he told the door loudly, hoping it wouldn't reveal his bluff. "Open the door!"

Nothing. Absolutely no indication that there was any life in the little apartment— _wait_. He drew a breath, held it. Yes, there it was; a muted thud and an almost-singing sound of something dropping and rolling across worn carpeted floors. Glass maybe? Perhaps the young man had knocked a coffee mug of some sort to the ground…

He didn't bother knocking again. His voice was no doubt loud enough to carry through the door. "Open up or I'll blow the lock off, Fullmetal!"

Still nothing.

With a growl, he reached into his pockets and felt the rough fabric of his gloves. It took only a moment to decide he'd been completely serious.

It was a tricky bit of alchemy to superheat the air around the cheap iron tumblers within the lock. But then a sharp noise, not unlike a ring of keys being dropped, rang through the hallway. Before the tumblers could fall back into place, he pushed the door open—and stared, heart hammering, into the gloomy apartment.

The hallway was dark, with only a grimy little window at the opposite end of the apartment to offer light. Muddy boots met his right toe, strewn carelessly over the tile floors. A torn jacket with a semi-automatic pistol peaking from a pocket rested beside them. A battered suitcase squatted nearby, but didn't hide the countless other pieces of detritus—holed gloves, yellowing newspapers, paper bags with half-eaten lunches—resting along worn floorboards.

And the _smell_. It was all Mustang could do not to hold his sleeve to his nose in an attempt to shield it against the hair-curling scent of molding foods, unwashed clothes, uncontrolled refuse, and something familiar and cloying that he couldn't quite identify.

Oh yes, something was very, _very_ wrong here.

"The least you could do, Fullmetal," he said to the stale kitchen air, and somehow his voice sounded as calm and collected as ever, "is have the decency to tell me where you are."

Only oppressive silence met his ears, so he shuffled through the kitchen, past stacks of Xingese take-out containers and around a rickety dining table burdened by a mountain of dirty laundry. Another military-issued weapon—this one a backup revolver—peaked out from underneath a worn-out sock.

His boots kicked up dust bunnies as he stepped under the archway that led to the living room. Gauzy curtains were drawn shut, allowing only a grim, grey light to filter over the packed bookshelves, the messy desk, the worn furniture. Heavy rains pounded against the windows.

His toe nudged something as he moved forward, causing the same almost-singing noise he'd heard back in the hallway, and his eyes moved down to investigate on their own accord. A sizeable bottle of vodka—its scratched and worn label reading "Drachma's Finest" in bold, black type—winked back up at him.

And there, stretched out on a fading, lumpy couch, was Edward, head bandaged, bruises stark against his naked torso, skin pale and gaunt in the feeble light. Mustang took in a sharp breath at the sight of the young man; he looked so _broken_ , and his mind brought him back to Ishval for just a moment.

He felt sick, but at least his voice was still steady.

"Get up, Fullmetal. It doesn't matter how hung over you are"—but, no, it really fucking did, because Edward hated alcohol and never hesitated to tell him the effects it had on the body and how did a sixteen-year-old get hard liquor anyway?—"you were expected to be at my office nearly half an hour ago to be debriefed. Get your ass off of that couch, make yourself presentable, and get ready to go. There's coffee in my office if you need it, but you're not leaving until I know every damned thing you've been hiding from me for these past six months."

After a few failed attempts, Edward managed to push himself up onto his elbows, head lolling as though too heavy to hold up properly; he eventually settled with pressing a cheek against a back cushion. There was a mark against the young man's exposed cheek—had he been pistol-whipped at some point? Neither Havoc nor the hospital report had mentioned anything of the sort.

Edward wasn't hungover, he realized with a start. No, the young man was still drunk.

Those two golden eyes, once fiery and fierce, now dampened and glazed and blood-shot, struggled to focus on him. "Fuck off, Mustang," he croaked after a moment, then his head fell back down onto the dark jacket he'd been using as a pillow.

"You're hardly in a position to make demands, and I refuse to stay in this miserable hovel you've been living in for any longer than I have to. You have fifteen minutes to clean up or I'm dragging you back to HQ the way you are right now."

"I'm not goin'." Edward slurred in response and, to emphasize his point, he shifted, pressing himself further against the couch. "Can't make me."

Of course, even drunk off his ass and unable to see straight, the brat would still fight him.

Mustang's fingers went cold, and he crossed his arms firmly over his chest. When he spoke, his voice was icy, and he held onto that cold with every ounce of strength he had. "That's an order. Don't make me tell you again."

"Fuck off." But those two words were dead, hollow; more proof of how far the young man had slipped while Mustang was busy convincing himself that Edward could take care of himself.

The cold worked its way into his chest, tightening around his lungs and squeezing his heart. The cloying scent—alcohol, he thought numbly, the entire apartment stank of _alcohol_ —still hung in his nose.

Enough was enough.

It took only three long strides to cross the space between himself and the prone blond. His numb fingers clamped down around the young man's elbow in a bruising grip, half lifting Edward off the couch before the young man finally protested with a string of slurred curses and a jerk of his captured limb.

"Dammit, Fullmetal!" He snapped out. "What the hell is going on?"

"Nothing." There was a flicker of emotion in Edward's own voice now, but why did it have to make him sound so old? "Just… leave me alone."

"Not until you give me an explanation for all of this."

Silence met Mustang's ears, and a growl bubbled up from between his lips.

Maes could always get people to talk, his mind whispered. The man was famous for being able to get people to spill all their secrets to his beguiling grin and sharp mind. Dammit, why couldn't he be here instead, to say all the right things to comfort the obviously suffering young man—?

Mustang gripped that thought.

He crouched down so that he was almost face-to-face with the young man, ignoring the way his knees popped and cracked, and fumbled with the words in his mind for a moment. When he spoke, the worry was still there, but that was fine. Maybe it would even break through the drunken haze. "This didn't start with New Optain, did it?"

Two bleary eyes cracked open, glared at him suspiciously.

"Was it the plant-chimaeras in Kineton?"He pressed. If he looked closely, he could see the fine cracks etching themselves in the young man's normally fearless façade. Edward was crumbling, there was no doubt about it.

"Nothing happened in Kineton." But the mumbled reply was weak, and it nearly broke under the weight of words that couldn't be true.

"Did something else happen that I'm not aware of?"

The bandaged head shifted against its jacket-pillow. Bare arms circled the bruised, bandaged chest until Edward was half-hugging himself. "I did what you wanted. S'all over now, and I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Sit up and tell me just this once, off the record." Maes had always been so unwaveringly patient with the people he dealt with. Mustang reached forward to grab the blond by the elbow again, but his grip was gentle this time.

The change happened so quickly that he couldn't help but stare. His hand was pushed away. Every muscle in that lithe body tensed. The cracks disappeared. The voice, once wavering, was suddenly firm, with no room for negotiation. "No."

"Let me guess." He threw the guess out wildly. Anything, _anything_ , to keep the young man talking. "The world's spinning and you don't want to fall off the couch."

Edward pressed his cheek against the jacket-pillow and didn't even bother telling him to fuck off.

That was it, right? The young man was embarrassed and didn't want to admit it? "It happens to most people at least once. You might as well fall off the couch and get it over with. At least you can be assured that the floor doesn't actually spin."

Nothing.

"Come on, Fullmetal." This time, he reached for a tense upper arm. "You'll feel better once you're sitting on the floor. Trust me."

"I said 'no'!" Edward snapped without warning, batting his hand away again. A fist hit home just a fraction of a second later, and pain blossomed across Mustang's jaw. "Jus' leave me the hell alone, bastard!"

The force of the blow sent him crashing into a scratched and scarred coffee table, disturbing a stack of handwritten notes and sending it fluttering to the ground. With effort, he pushed the pain aside—even reeking of alcohol and swaying from its effects, there was no denying that Edward had a mean right hook—and met that tarnished brass gaze.

The young man settled himself again, hunkering down on the couch as though guarding a treasure and gripping at the pillow-jacket like it was some sort of security blanket. The gentle clatter of metal against metal rang throughout the room as the plates making up his remaining automail limb trembled—with anger? Cold? Something else?

Then a terrible, horrible thought hit Mustang square in the gut, wrenching his stomach in half and stealing his breath, and his gaze turned to the thumb-sized mark decorating Edward's jaw. He opened his mouth, and his voice immerged as little more than a croak. "What are you hiding, Fullmetal?"

"Nothing."

But those scarred shoulders twitched, and Mustang knew he was lying.

He pushed himself away from the coffee table, one hand slipping on a fallen page, and lunged forward. His right hand gripped tightly at the dark jacket, jerking it out from under the drunken teenager's head, while the left pushed against Edward's shoulder, forcing the blond back and giving Mustang the precious second he needed to free the garment.

A heavy clunk echoed off the walls and dusty bookshelves and the dark jacket fell from Mustang's fingers.

The world froze. Mustang's mind buzzed. Dull metal, a military-issued Browning, gleamed up at him from its place at the base of the couch; the barrel was a thumb-width wide and the grip was worn down from use.

There was a voice at the back of his mind, screaming, shouting, crying, slamming pale fists against the inside of his skull. Was it really what it looked like? Had the young man—no, the _kid_ , because he was really just a scared and lonely and upset _kid_ —pressed the pistol so hard against his own jaw that it had left a mark?

Had Edward lain there for long, shivering in the grey light, cold barrel bruising bone, hands shaking, eyes blurring, heart fluttering, trying to convince himself to pull the trigger?

Mustang ignored the voice and, breathing heavily, wrapped numb fingers around the weapon. Without a word, he flicked the safety catch on, pulled the slide. The round caged there fell to the ground noiselessly.

The magazine—already half-empty, he noted—was also released, and he slipped it into one of the pockets of his royal blue military trousers. Hands shaking ever so slightly, he placed the now-empty weapon on the coffee table and turned to the shaking blond.

"Edward," he said very, _very_ calmly, though his heart was beating in his throat and his lungs couldn't pull in air and he still couldn't feel his fingers, "you need to explain to me why you were hiding that gun under your jacket."

For a moment, only silence met his ears. Then, just as a plethora of curses were forming in Mustang's mind, Edward opened his mouth. There was no mistaking the barely contained shame and frustration and _hurt_ when he spoke. "What do you think, bastard?"

Be patient, he reminded himself, ignoring the slow return of feeling in his fingers. Be patient. "I think you were about to do something stupid. What I want to know is why."

"You wanna know why… "Edward repeated and, to his shock, a harsh, unhappy sound that might have been laughter burst from the young man's mouth. "You're making a mistake, bastard."

"Then you can laugh at me after I've finished making it," Mustang countered, a little too quickly, and he tried desperately to keep his heart beat under control even as the screaming in his mind grew louder.

Too-old eyes watched him, glazed and red-rimmed and glassy, and _oh shit_ were there tears there? There was no way the kid was crying; Edward was too brave, too strong, to cry. "S'all so easy with alchemy. Just clap your hands or draw a circle, and you can change whatever you want. It's… it's the worst fucking feeling to see people in trouble and to know how to help them, and then not be able to because you just can' make it happen anymore."

The rain. Mustang hated the rain with a passion because, yes, he knew how earth-shatteringly worthless it felt; to see people in danger and to know that he could help them if only the situation were only slightly different…

The thought made his stomach rebel. "Is that what happened in New Optain?"

But blond hair flew as Edward shook his head. "They were _kids_ ," he gasped out. A hand reached up to cover his face, but there was no hiding the wet trails that traced the contours of his cheeks. "Those assholes were using their own kids to lure out some Aer'gonian traders hiding in some of the empty mineshafts. They were gonna risk their own kids being turned int' slaves so that they could find out who was stealing their ore…"

A bland, by-the-books report of mining operations in Hohenburg—the first field mission Mustang had sent the young man on since convincing him to stay in the military, over six months ago—came to mind. Vaguely, he recalled Havoc mentioning something about some children getting trapped in the mine, exuberant parents, and a resulting celebration.

"They'd taken a little girl from a town nearby and they… Those fuckers were _laughing_ while they played with her body. The other kids—the ones they'd found from Hohenburg—were all locked up. I had to do something before they were hauled off and it would've been _so fucking easy_ if I could've just transmuted the lock off the cages and gotten 'em away, but…"

A pathetic sniffle. With a hand still over his eyes, Edward somehow managed to wipe at his nose.

"I didn't know what to do, so I… I told them who I was and that there were soldiers outside. Thought maybe they'd freak and just give up or something. Instead, they came at me and I— _shit_!—next thing I know I'd pulled my gun and one of 'em was bleeding from the chest and the kids were screaming and the bastards were running and…

"The miners must've known something was up. Once I'd got the kids out and we were at the entrance, they were already there. They had their picks and stuff with them, too. The miners… they…"

With another wild shake of his head, Edward cut himself short; Mustang was glad that he did. He didn't need to know exactly had the miners had done to the Aerugonians—his imagination was already filling in the bloody details a little too well.

For a moment, neither spoke, and the only sounds came from the steady drum of rain on the windows and Edward's own stuttering breaths. Then, finally, Mustang climbed to his feet. Two dull eyes peeked up at him from between two fingers; they followed his movements as he strode into the filthy little kitchen and rummaged around in the cupboards. After a moment, Mustang found what he was searching for—a chipped mug which, after he'd paused by the sink to fill it, he took with him as he returned to the living room.

He pretended that he couldn't see the ripples in the water his trembling caused when he presented the mug to Edward. "You're going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow if you don't drink something."

The hand covering the kid's eyes slipped away, and after a slight struggle, Edward managed to right himself. He sipped at the water hesitantly, eyes flickering between the mug in his hands and Mustang himself.

He looked so sad and lost and, well, _childlike_ that Mustang couldn't help but wonder how he had ever forgot that the sixteen-year-old was just that—a teenager, a kid. He pinched the bridge of his nose, gathered his courage, and pushed forward again. "And what about the plant-chimaeras in Kineton? What really happened there?"

The question brought a violent flinch.

"I… There's nothing to say 'bout Kineton—" Edward began. Mustang could almost see him try to rebuild the cracked and crumbling walls around himself.

No way. Not now. With a sigh, he eased himself down onto the couch, sitting so close to the kid that the silver trim of his waist-cape brushed against Edward's own loose trousers. A half-forgotten question bubbled up from the back of his mind. "The alchemist you spoke to… he was using people for his experiments, wasn't he?"

"…Yeah. Drifters an' vagrants, an' anyone else he could catch who wouldn't make people wonder."

"It must have been painful for them," he offered, "to be in that kind of state."

"It was written on their faces," Edward whispered, gaze fixed on the half-full mug. "The look in their eyes—they never 'spected to stop hurting. And some of them… they were just hollow inside.

"The maniac who made them kept going on about how they were finally contr'buting something to Amestris. He heard about me from the farmer I was helping, so I guess he thought I'd be easy to use for his next 'speriments. I mean"—he placed a hand on his prosthetic leg—"a cripple can't be that hard to catch, right?

"But when he realized who I was, he panicked and some of his—his _creations_ after me. One of 'em, a woman, kept screaming and crying and telling me how sorry she was; she di'n't want to fight me, but he'd transmuted some obedience fail-safe or something int' her, and she couldn't stop. And it hurt her to even move, let alone try to catch me—her arms were a mess of bones and vines and she cried whenever she lashed out. Her legs were so stiff she could barely move them, and when I shot her in the knee, she didn't even feel it…"

He shuddered, and the hand holding the mug trembled violently. "She was begging me to kill her; it took almost a whole clip 'til she stopped moving. And when she couldn't move anymore, she actually _thanked_ me. She was fucking bleeding to death and she couldn't breathe, but she thanked me for _killing her_.

"Then I managed to stop the other two, but I ran out of rounds and the crazy bastard'd let more of them out. I couldn't cage them 'cause I couldn't transmute anything, and I couldn't let them get to the village or else everything'd go to shit…"

"So you burned the entire place down." Mustang recalled the report from all those months ago, just as he recalled the bruised knuckles and poorly hidden limp, the limp hair and the hollow eyes.

"I sat there and watched it burn to—to make sure that none of 'em made it out." A hand dashed across the kid's face, catching tears and brushing them aside. "They screamed for hours. Was almost dawn when they finally stopped."

He lapsed into silence again. His shoulders shook under the weight of the revelation.

Mustang watched the blond out of the corner of his eye, face carefully blank as he berated himself wildly. He really was a bastard; he must be, to not have taken the energy to piece together everything he hadn't been told, and to be too blind to notice exactly how badly these missions were tearing the kid apart.

He was supposed to be keeping an eye on the blond. And instead he'd been fucking useless.

He grabbed the mug out of Edward's hand, perhaps with more force than necessary, and made his way back into the kitchen. The tap whined as water dribbled but, before long, the mug was full again and pressed back into trembling fingers. "If New Optain hadn't been such a fiasco, you wouldn't have told me about that either."

It wasn't a question, Edward still shook his head nonetheless. "Nothing more than what I would've had to say."

"Why not?"

"'Cause the military only cares about results. The mission failed, so what else is there to say?"

He had to admit it—the kid wasn't wrong. The Amestrian military never had cared about the details. Mustang, however… "Well, telling me about the circumstances surrounding the deaths of those two civilians might be a good place to start."

"It was a mess." The kid brought the mug to his lips, muffling his voice and hiding his face. "By the time me and Havoc got there, it was too late… An' when I started talking to people to try to get them to calm the fuck down, they freaked out more. Someone must've said the wrong thing at the wrong time, because it all jus'… blew up after that.

"We were at a café for lunch, and next thing I know people were screaming and there were gunshots everywhere. We ran out t' find out what was happening, but we got sep'rated in all the chaos, then I saw these two bastards… tormenting some woman with a kid in her arms."

"I did everything I could, but I couldn't get 'em to leave her alone, and there were so many people shoving and pushing and running around that I couldn't've gotten a good punch on them if I wanted to. But I couldn't let those bastards hurt her like that, so I pulled out my gun and told them to fuck off. They didn't, so I—I fired."

"…People around saw me shoot, and they panicked an' jumped me." Edward muttered. The fingers around the mug tightened until they were green, and a mirthless smirk curled across his lips. "Can you believe it? The 'Hero of the People' taken down by a few random people in the streets."

Mustang was silent, brows furrowed in thought and eyes focused on the precise crease of his deep blue trousers. What was there to say, really? Edward wouldn't appreciate being told that he did the right thing, he thought darkly; if it hadn't been the right thing to do, the kid wouldn't have done it.

At least, if the meek pattering on the window was anything to go by, the rain was starting to let up.

"Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you talk to someone—anyone—about what was going on?" He finally asked, turning to fix his gaze on the bright blond head bowed beside him. Dammit, the kid still looked so scared, so lost… His gaze sharpened as he made up his mind, and his hand rose to rest on Edward's bare shoulder.

It twitched, but didn't shy away, as a derisive snort answered him. "I already told you. The military doesn't care about that kinda shit…"

But there was more to it than that. As sure as he was of his own name, Mustang was sure there was something that the kid wasn't telling him.

Just as he was mentally preparing his plan of attack, though, Edward surrendered for the first time in his life. His voice was little more than a whisper. "'Sides, who the hell would listen to me?"

"Anyone you wanted to." A memory of his blond Second Lieutenant, terse and serious, came to mind. "Havoc would have your back, and he knows how to keep his mouth shut when he has to. And Al would—"

"Al doesn't need to know 'bout any of this." The words were snapped out suddenly, and Edward rounded on the man. Then, energy gone just as quickly, he sagged again. "And Havoc… jus' wouldn't get it."

"I would listen."

The words left Mustang's mouth before he could remember thinking them. They were true, he realized as they hung in the air, and he didn't take them back.

"This is all your fault." But there was no real heat in the words, as though Edward was trying to decide whether or not the accusation was true. Those golden eyes stared at him, scrutinizing him, and he could start to feel them burn even as he met the gaze squarely.

It was far more true than the kid knew, he thought bitterly, remembering the meetings with Grumman and his only half-hearted attempts to convince the man to let Edward leave military service. "I know."

"I… I hate you for it."

"You have every right to."

The kid sighed, nodded, and placed the empty mug on the coffee table with a soft clunk. Silence stretched out between the two of them, brittle and tenuous and ready to snap.

"I feel like crap," Edward muttered after a moment, groaning to emphasize his point, and that was it.

The pressure that he been building behind Mustang's lungs all this time popped, and the screaming voice in the back of his mind quieted to a mere whisper. "It's just the alcohol. You would probably do best to sleep it off."

"R-right." But the kid made no attempt to stand. Instead, two flickering eyes turned to him, asking a question that he wouldn't ever say out loud.

"Just to go sleep, kid," Mustang said. The smile that ghosted across his lips was completely unintentional. "I'll still be around when you wake up."

With a nod, Edward rose to his feet and, swaying lightly, made for the hallway. At the threshold, though, he turned, golden eyes meeting Mustang's own dark ones once more. "Hey, General?"

"Yeah?"

"…Thanks."

With that, uneven footsteps rung through the little apartment and Edward stumbled through a half open door. From where he sat, Mustang heard the distinct sound of a body hitting plush blankets. Then, after a few moments, Edward's breathing evened out, and he knew that the kid was sleeping.

The reek of sweat and alcohol still assaulted his nose as he sat there. His eyes roamed the dark room, taking in the dusty old bookshelves and battered desks, before falling to the still-closed curtains.

Heavy footfalls brought him to the windows, and steady hands threw them open. Beyond the grimy, warped glass, slate-grey clouds twisted and tumbled, but the streets were drying and a few brave souls were venturing out onto Central's washed streets. It had finally stopped raining.

The smile on his lips widened. Edward, he knew, would be all right.

* * *

END

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Whew… Well, there you have it, everyone. Thanks a bunch for coming along for the ride with me! Thanks as well to my two lovely betas, who tore each chapter apart looking for typos and inconsistencies.

This entire story is rather different than how I normally write (what with it being a story from Mustang's POV but about Edward), so if you have any thoughts, comments, critiques, praises, suggestions, or otherwise, I'd absolutely love to hear from you in a review! (Please?)

Also, please note, method writing—you know, sort of like method acting—is a terrible idea when it comes to trying to determined how a depressed and drunk character would act. Just… don't do it.

Anyway, now that Edward's mad at me for tormenting him, I'm off to write some piece of fluffy crap to make him feel better… Then I'm going to send him to war. You'll find these in _No Place Like It_ and _Loyal Dogs_ , respectively.

Until next time!

xCxBxBx


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